


Who do you think you are?

by Baccatapages



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, More tags to be added, Rich!Castiel, mechanic!Dean, wheelchairbound Bobby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-21 11:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14914895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baccatapages/pseuds/Baccatapages
Summary: “Are you a haemophiliac?”“No. Why are you being nice?”“Are you married?”“No. Is it because you want something out of helping me?”“What? No. Name of the doctor who holds your medical records.”“Dr Baker.” Emmanuel said. “I can give you money, if you want.”“Oh my god, I will jam this pen down your throat if you keep asking me if I want money out of you.”“So you do want money?”“Fucking hell.”Castiel is spoilt, snobbish and VERY rich.Dean works two jobs to support himself, his brother Sammy and their godfather Bobby, who is in a wheelchair.When Alastair and Azazel pick out Dean, Castiel thinks it will be easy, he even feels let off the hook at his business partners picking someone so handsome... But Alistar and Azazel already knew what kind of person Dean was. They knew that Dean would not be impressed by Castiel's flash suits or expensive cars... Dean had something called... emotion.Dean had a heart where Castiel had a cash register...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a prompt on FB  
> I don't own Supernatural  
> P.S this probably isn't a good time to start a storing during an exam. Oh well.

 "Care to make it a wager?"

Castiel smoothed down the front of his crisp white shirt, before looking across the table to the man who'd spoken, resting his elbows on the table, he leaned in, narrowing his eyes...

"You know I do," He said with a closed mouth smile. "The specifications?"

Alastair looked to Azazel who scratched his chin before saying, "You have three months. Three months to make a man or woman of our choosing fall in love with you." Castiel raised an eyebrow. _This should be interesting._

"Sexual orientation will, of course, be taken into account," Said Alastair to which Castiel nodded.

Azazel spoke up again. "You can't tell them how much your worth, you can't tell them your real name, you can't tell them about the bet."

"Obviously," Said Castiel at the last rule, a smile tugging at his lips at the thought of the game. "The stakes?"

"A hundred thousand? It's just a little friendly wager anyway." Alastair shrugged, leaning back in his chair with his hundred-dollar whiskey in hand.

"Deal." Castiel said without hesitation. “Who did you have in mind?”

 

“Can you believe this?” Sam huffed, throwing a newspaper onto Dean’s lap as he was taking a bite of toast. “The Government have just given the Novak family ten million to restore their family mansion.”

Dean scowled, putting his toast down and brushing his fingers off, staring down at the headline. Everyone thought that the Novaks were the people that hung the stars whereas Dean and his family just thought they were snobbish pricks with silver spoons shoved up their asses. “Where did the Government even manage to scrape ten million from?”

“Probably our pockets.” Dean’s godfather, Bobby, grunted as he rolled into the kitchen. Ever since his accident in the shop, he’d worked mainly in the office but he’d never truly gotten over what was taken from him. That being, his legs. “Or maybe the charity money meant to go to starvin’ kids in Africa.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Sam sighed. “How many people actually live at the mansion? Or is it just for show?”

“Says here,” Dean said, unfolding the newspaper. “Angela and Charles Novak officially moved out once their son, Castiel Novak became an eligible bachelor. Castiel is known to be polite, caring and intelligent.” Dean snorted. “Caring my ass. Probably only cares about his wealth and who he’s got on his arm that night.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird no one’s ever seen a picture of him?” Sam asked, taking a sip of coffee.

“Maybe he just likes his privacy.” Dean suggested. “’Because the pressure’s too much!’” He said, putting on a fake posh accent and waving his hand like a royal might do. Sam snorted into his coffee and Bobby laughed.

“Or he’s ugly as fuck.” Bobby offered, chuckling.

 

Castiel looked down at the file he’d gotten pulled together by one of his top men. Dean Winchester should be easy to crack. According to the file, he’d shown an affinity for both men and women though mainly men, worked at a garage, didn’t have more than a GED and had one younger brother. Apparently, his father was off in a rehab centre for alcoholism and his mother had been dead since Dean was four.

“Sir? It’s done.” The family mechanic, Garth, approached him. Castiel had requested he damage his car so that he’d need a lot of repairs done. “I’ve melted part of the oil tube, cracked-“

“Are you still here?” Castiel pushed past the small man before he could say anything more and dumped the file into one of his drawers and locked it. He made his way to the garage and set out to Singer Auto Garage and Repairs.

He wrinkled his nose as he passed the quaint little town he had to get through. Where were all the high-end brands? What if Castiel wanted to do some light shopping?

His attention was pulled away from the state of the town by his car making an odd noise. Garth had really done his job well and Castiel pulled over next to a lamp post and got out. Castiel could only gape as smoke started billowing out of the hood of his car, waves of heat following suit.

“Hey! What are you doing just standing-“ The man who had started to berate him after he’d walked into him huffed and turned Castiel around roughly. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

“What do you want?” Castiel demanded, regaining his composure as he stared at the… shockingly handsome man standing there with coffee down his blue overalls.

“You don’t just stand in the middle of the road.” He snapped. “And not expect people who’ve had a shitty day to not run into idiots who are just standing there.”

A flame of anger ignited in Castiel’s chest. “Who are you to-“

Before he could finish, a loud bang caused the coffee-soaked man to pull Castiel away from his car which was currently on fire. They fell back, Castiel on top of the man in overalls and he could vaguely hear someone calling 911. Then it hit him. Why the overall-rude man looked so familiar.

The green eyes of Dean Winchester glared up at him as Castiel shifted and accidentally elbowed Dean in the chest. “Get off me.” Dean snapped and Castiel obliged, somewhat in a daze. Castiel offered a hand but Dean slapped it away.

Something warm and wet started to drip down Castiel’s arm and it made him look down at his left arm. His jacket arm was ripped and a piece of shrapnel had embedded itself in his arm. “Huh.” Strangely, it didn’t hurt, but it felt like it should’ve.

“You’re going to have to get stitches.” Dean said, his whole demeanour changing. Suddenly he looked concerned and less angry. “The nearest hospital is a mile away and you can’t walk like that. Come on, I’ll take you.”

Before Castiel could argue, Dean grabbed his blood-free arm and directed him to a beautiful black Impala. “Why are you doing this?” Castiel asked, confused. “How much do you want?”

Dean frowned as he passed Castiel a towel from the back so the blood wouldn’t ruin the upholstery. “What do you mean by how much?”

“Money. How much do you want?” Castiel repeated, awkwardly buckling himself into the passenger seat.

Dean squinted at him as he started the car. “I don’t want anything. Another coffee, maybe, but not now.” Without another word, he revved the engine and drove down the street, leaving Castiel to be thoroughly discombobulated. Where he came from, everyone wanted something.

 

Dean stood by the car Richard Roman had demanded he fix up in two _hours_ so that it was ready for some big gala that Dean couldn’t care less about, but he was staring into space as Dick yelled at him for getting minute scratches on the car’s paintjob that Dean barely had any time for and for it being the wrong colour, which Dick hadn’t specified in the first place.

By the end of the rant, Dean’s mood was getting worse and by the time he saw the back of Dick and his stupid Porsche, he was ready to kick something. “He’s a piece of work.” Dean muttered, turning away to go do an oil change for little old Mrs Jones who loved to pinch Dean’s cheeks. Butt cheeks, that is.

“Dean-o?” Charlie poked her head into the garage and Dean looked up from where he was just screwing the cap back onto the oil container. “Crowley’s here. What should I say?”

“Tell him to go back to the hell-hole he came from.” Dean growled, brushing off his hands.

“No-can-do, love.” The smarmy prick said, sauntering into the garage past an indignant Charlie. “I’m not leaving until we talk.”

“About what?” Dean sighed.

“About what’s yours and what’s mine.” Crowley said. “Who gets what.”

Dean squinted at Crowley. “You do realise we weren’t married, right? So you have no right to anything I have.” Dean always knew Crowley had a hankering for Dean’s Baby and Dean wasn’t letting the seedy little fucker anywhere near it.

Crowley tutted. “And yet we did share a lot of things.”

“A bed does not count.” Dean snapped. “Nor does a cat.”

“I don’t want the cat.” Crowley sniffed. “Little bastard never liked me anyways.”

Dean scowled. “We only got him because you wanted him and I’m _allergic_!”

Crowley shrugged. “Is that my concern? No. What I want is rights to your in-progress book.”

Dean gaped. “You’re not getting your grubby hands on that! You have no right to it! You’ll have to pry it from my cold dead hands!”

The ex-boyfriend sighed. “Why do you have to be so unreasonable?”

“Get out!” Dean growled, pointing to the door. “Get out before I make you!”

Crowley glared and left, stomping away. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten which didn’t particularly work but he had a shot at it. Why was his life such a mess? Why did the universe like making his life even worse by crapping on it?

 

Dean was heading home, getting a coffee on the way and lost in thought when he accidentally walked into some posh guy in a suit just stood there, staring at his car that was literally smoking.

“Hey! What are you doing just standing-“ Dean glared when the man didn’t even turn around and tugged on one shoulder to spin him around. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

“What do you want?” The blue-eyed, sex-haired man sneered, looking at Dean like he was dirt. Or maybe a worm.

“You don’t just stand in the middle of the road.” He snapped. “And not expect people who’ve had a shitty day to not run into idiots who are just standing there.”

A look a pure rage flashed across the man’s face. “Who are you to-“

A loud bang from the vehicle behind the rude guy and Dean acted on instinct. He pulled the man back away from the car on fire but they fell back so he was sprawled on top of Dean. The man shifted and Dean grunted, glaring. “Get off me!”

The man stood and tried to offer Dean a hand but he batted it away, steadily getting to his feet. Dean noticed the blood before the man did. A piece of metal had ripped his expensive jacket arm and a long, 8 inch scar would soon be there. “Huh.” The man looked mildly surprised.

“You’re going to have to get stitches.” Dean said, suddenly turning on his Mother-hen mode. “The nearest hospital is a mile away and you can’t walk like that. Come on, I’ll take you.” Without waiting for an answer, Dean dragged the guy to his car and handed him a towel from the backseat. Blood was a bitch to get out of the upholstery.

“Why are you doing this?” The guy asked, confused. “How much do you want?”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean how much?”

“Money. How much do you want?” He repeated, awkwardly buckling himself into the passenger seat.

Dean squinted at him as he started the car. “I don’t want anything. Another coffee, maybe, but not now.” He revved the engine and drove down the street.

 

“Name.”

“Emmanuel Allen.”

“Age.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Occupation.” No answer. Dean looked at Emmanuel who was fidgeting, looking anywhere but at Dean. “What’s your job?”

“I’m between jobs.” Emmanuel finally huffed. “But I don’t exactly need one. Can I ask you a question?”

“We’re not playing twenty-questions.” Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to the medical form. “Emergency contact.”

“I don’t have one.” Emmanuel said and Dean looked at him, pity suddenly flashing through him.

“Oh, uh, sorry. Do you have a friend, maybe?” Dean asked. Emmanuel shook his head. “Okay then.” Dean scribbled down his details and moved on to the next question. “Nature of injury.”

“Well, it hurts.” Emmanuel supplied helpfully.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Metal shrapnel attack.” He muttered, writing down as he spoke. “Insurance?”

“I have money.”

Dean frowned. “That’s not what it’s asking. Do you have insurance?”

“Probably.”

“And you know none of the details?” Dean sighed as Emmanuel shook his head. “Perfect.” Dean ticked the no box and moved on. “Do you have any medical problems/are on any medication?”

“Do multivitamins count?” Emmanuel asked.

“Next question.” Dean said, moving on. “Are you a haemophiliac?”

“No. Why are you being nice?”

“Are you married?”

“No. Is it because you want something out of helping me?”

“What? No. Name of the doctor who holds your medical records.”

“Dr Baker.” Emmanuel said. “I can give you money, if you want.”

“Oh my god, I will jam this pen down your throat if you keep asking me if I want money out of you.”

“So you do want money?”

“Fucking hell.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean really needs a hug in general...

"So, how did your first meeting go?" Alastair asked, hiding a smirk behind his glass.

Castiel sighed. "Terribly. My car got totaled, I had to have stitches and i'm fairly certain Dean thinks i'm prude." _Which I most certainly am not_ , Castiel thought dejectedly.

"Well, you'll have to keep seeing him or watch your bank balance drop by a hundred thousand." Azazel shrugged. 

Determination flared in Castiel's chest. "I will see him again. I just have to figure out how." After Dean had taken him to the hospital and back to the garage, Benny Lafitte, a mechanic where Dean worked, told him bluntly that, ' _Your car's as broken as a pile of eggs after makin' a souffle with whipped cream on top_.' Castiel didn't exactly understand the reference, but he understood the gist. Bart had done his job well. Perhaps he was called Garth? Either way, it didn't matter. 

While Castiel was distracted with paying for the bill (it was his turn on the rotation they had), Azazel turned to Alastair. "How can we be sure that Dean won't just welcome Castiel with open arms and then it's a fairytale from there?"

"Fear not, brother." Alastair grinned. "What's a bet without a little cheating, hmm? I'm sure there are lots of little twinks that are willing to fake-date someone for a quick buck."

Azazel smirked. "Think they'll be able to play the part?"

Alastair shrugged. "I know one that is an expert at acting, so much that she makes it seem like having fun times with old man Adler is the time of her life."

Azazel whistled in appreciation. "What's her name?"

"Sarah Blake, I believe. Stage name, Patience. I can tell you, there's nothing patient about that girl." He hummed. "Best three days of my life."

Azazel looked mildly intrigued. "If she's that good, I might have her myself."

"Who's Patience?" Castiel asked, suddenly standing next to them. 

"Just a friend." Alstair said, trying to recover from his mini heart attack.

"I need to get going. Some idiot has lost a whole shipment of goods." Castiel huffed and trudged off, obviously not in a good mood.

"How do you lose a whole shipment of goods?" Azazel frowned.

"How do you lose a strip joint after you're the one that built it?" Alastair said.

Azazel shrugged. "Touche."

 

After three glasses of whiskey, Castiel finally worked up the nerve to call Dean. He was sat in his office, at three in the afternoon, drinking whiskey and determined not to lose a silly best that he would hardly blink an eye at. The phone rang three times before a groggy voice answered with a slur of words. "This is Emmanuel Allen. Am I speaking to Dean?"

The recipient cleared his throat and tried to talk again but it came out very scratchy. "Yeah, what do you want?"

"Did I wake you?"

Dean made an irritated noise. "No, I was wide awake."

"Oh good, I was wondering if you could help me pick out a new car." Castiel said, biting his lip nervously.

A long sigh reached his ears. "You... You want me to hold your hand while you pick out a big boy car?"

Castiel frowned. "You don't have to hold my hand, and I already had a big boy car before."

"Are you being serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Why do you want my help?"

"Well, you're a good and experienced mechanic, you can tell me what cars will last longer." Castiel reasoned.

"Or you could ask the dealer." Dean suggested, some shuffling coming from the other end which Castiel presumed to be him making coffee. "And leave me in peace?"

"Ah, alright, I 'get the hint', as my brother would say." Castiel tried not to feel disappointed, but obviously it didn't work as he could practically taste the disappointment in the air. "I won't disturb you in the future." He finished with coldness lacing his voice. Before Dean could say anything, he hung up and promptly threw his phone into the office wall. 

His secretary, an intern named Samandriel/Alfie, hesitantly knocked on the door and stepped in. "Uh, sir?"

"What? Can't you see i'm in the middle of something?" He shouted and scowled at his broken phone until he realised who was at the door and smiled.. "Ah, Alfie. Excellent. I could use some good news right now." Alfie hesitated, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

 

"Well would you look at this." Bobby mused, flicking through the newspaper. "King Novak is divorcing his Queen." He snorted. The news story was on every page in the newspaper, leaving little room for anything else. 

"How long to you think it'll be in the tabloids for?" Sam asked, quickly scarfing down a bowl of Lucky Charms.

"Journalists are gonna milk it for all it's worth." Bobby shrugged. "We'll probably get some real news in the next decade."

Sam and Bobby's attention was drawn to Dean who was staggering in after a night shift at the Roadhouse. He had a black eye, a limp and deep bags under his eyes. "Yikes." Sam muttered. "What happened to you?"

Dean grunted. "Which part? Where I was breaking up a fight between a biker and a bodybuilder, escorting some sleezy drunk guy out of the building when he attacked me with a fucking stun gun, or when I was woken up halfway through my nap when it just made more sense to stay awake until my shift? Take your pick." He slumped down in a chair opposite Bobby and laid his head down on the table, wanting to just sleep for an eternity.

"Who woke you up?" Sam frowned.

"It was the Emmanuel Douche Allen guy. Remember him? He wanted me to help him buy a car." Dean grumbled and shook his head. When he'd been pulled out of a very nice dream including several of his favourite porn stars, his throat drier than the Saharah, because the guy wanted help buying a car, Dean barely restrained himself from yelling the guy's ear off. He had a twelve hour shift at the Roadhouse, covering for Jo who wanted to go out on a date with some guy named Adam, looming and it was even less bearable because of his lack of sleep.

"I'll call Aaron in to cover for you." Bobby decided. "You look shot to hell, boy."

 He started to roll away when Dean spoke up, his voice slightly muffled by the table. "Bobby?"

"Yeah?" The man in the wheelchair looked back.

"You're awesome."

 Before heading to school, Sam settled a dozy and drained brother down on the sofa, covered him with a blanket and set up Netflix with Dr Sexy playing from the first episode. He put out a glass of water and pre-made a pot of coffee. Dean barely stirred as Sam left the house, closing the door a bit too hard.

He jogged down the steps and hurried as fast as he could to catch the bus. Sam barely registered the dark haired, blue eyed man waiting in a Ford by the side of the road, squinting at a piece of paper.

 

Castiel glanced back at the piece of paper that he had noted down Dean's address on from the insurance forms to check he was in the right place. Once he deemed himself to be in the right place, he opened his door only for a young man with shaggy brown hair to run head first into it and tumble back with a bloody nose.

"Dude!" He held a hand to his nose and grimaced in pain.

"Why weren't you looking where you were going?" Castiel frowned, examining the scratches on the car door.

"Uh, I don't know, because i'm late for class and at this rate i'll miss it!" The man snapped.

"Where do you live? I'll held you to the door." Castiel offered, somewhat reluctantly. Besides, the man could hardly see from the blood dribbling over his eyes.

The man huffed but allowed Castiel to pull the him up. He pointed to a door to a house that looked considerably more tatty than the others around it, but Castiel bit his tongue. Castiel guided him to a rickety chair and found a glass, filled it with water and then got a towel. He handed both to the man who seemed to be less dazed than before. 

"Sam?" A very familiar man stood in the doorway looking awful. "What're you doin' here still?" Then he noticed Castiel. "Are you following me or something?" Dean growled, suddenly more awake.

"You're Emmanuel then?" Sam, presumably, grunted as he held his nose with his head tipped back. "What were you doing sitting in our road?"

"The hospital called me and said there was a problem. Something to do with your details, Dean, and since I felt you wouldn't respond well to a call, I decided to drop by with the address the hospital gave me." Castiel shrugged. "Sam running into my door was just an accident."

Sam scowled. "Dude, you should've been looking! I'm now late for school!"

"Either way, I can come back later if you're still tired?" Castiel eyed Dean warily. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

"I'm up now." Dean grunted. "Next time, be a bit louder when you come in."

Castiel blinked. "That's an odd request, but alright."

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. "Jeez, nevermind."

"I don't understand what i've done wrong." Castiel frowned.

"You haven't done anything wrong, you just really need to learn how to detect sarcasm." Dean shrugged. "And learn to be more observant."

"Sam ran into _my_ door." Castiel huffed.

Dean snorted. "Oh yeah, sure, you didn't just whip your door out like some Houdini?"

Castiel squinted. "Houdini worked more in escape acts. I believe a proper reference would be Harry Blackstone Sr, a famed stage magician and illusionist of the 20th century."

Just as Dean was about to retort, a look of disbelief on his face, Sam piped up. "Um, guys? My stomach hurts."

Dean blinked owlishly at the slowly blooming wound on Sam's stomach. "Shit."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Houdini' part is just so I could get the boys to argue more, I know Houdini was an illusionist, stuntman and escape artist but eh


End file.
